


it won't give up, it wants me dead, and goddamn this noise inside my head

by orphan_account



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Angst, Gen, Guns, Hopeful Ending, Overdosing, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 09:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Suicidal ideation was a horror of its own in Tim's life.





	it won't give up, it wants me dead, and goddamn this noise inside my head

**Author's Note:**

> i'm going to warn you right now. this. is. very. dark.   
> i WILL tell you it has a hopeful ending but like.   
> oof.   
> will i ever write anything happy again? that depends entirely on how life decides to start treating me to be honest.   
> i'm missanonrabbit on tumblr if you wanna yell at me for this, or yell at me in general

He thought about it. Buying a gun, that is. Thought about what it’d feel like to put a bullet in that bastard’s head for everything he’d done to him and all their friends. In his mind, it felt good. It felt powerful. It felt like justice.  _Sweet revenge._

 

Yet there was a darker part of him speaking in hushed tones and barely there whispers that held him back. His hands trembled and his breath grew short whenever he thought about it. All he said on tape was that he didn’t trust himself with a gun. That was all the people needed to know. More than likely, they’d get what he meant anyway. A lot of the people who watched the channel were smart.

 

_Those_ thoughts crossed his mind on the daily now. They were pretty easy to contain when he had Jay around, but they were getting harder to ignore now that his only friend in this was gone. He tried not to think about how the other man most likely died angry at him as well. That just twisted the knife stuck deep in his chest that he was convinced would probably never leave.

 

He was leaning back in his chair strumming a random tune he couldn’t remember the name of on his guitar, and they started to warp his mind again. Images flashed before him of shoving every single one of his pills into his mouth. He still didn’t remember actually doing that, but he remembered watching himself do it. His mouth actually watered as the urge crept up on him again. He licked his lips and took a deep, shuddering breath.  _It didn’t work last time, so it wouldn’t work this time._ The fact that this was the only thought that held him back from doing it was immensely worrying.

 

This was why he couldn’t buy a gun. Every waking moment of him having it would be spent talking himself down. Any time he so much as looked at it, he’d be bombarded with twisted fantasies. He wouldn’t be able to handle it. The temptation would be too much. He wondered if he’d make it long enough to even use it on Alex. What was louder in his head: the rage, or the suicidal ideation? He didn’t know anymore. Both of them screamed so much, he couldn’t tell most of the time.

 

He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to roam free for a bit. Would he put it in his mouth, or put it against his temple? He told himself to look up which was more likely to kill him. He immediately then retracted that statement and told himself  _not_ to do that. He shook his head and fought the urge to smash his guitar against a wall.

 

Music was one of the few coping mechanisms he still had. Most of the time he was entirely numb and only thought about revenge or death, but when he brought himself to strum a few notes and hum something, it poured some water onto the raging fire in his fucking soul.

 

Spite was what was most likely going to save him. The only time he thought about wanting to live was out of spite. He wanted to prove to both Alex and that horrible thing that he could live at least a sort of happy life, despite how much they’d fucked everything up.

 

And that was what stopped him from buying a gun. If he didn’t have the temptation, spite could move him forward. A fleeting whisper told him he had knives in the kitchen, knives he could slit his goddamn wrists with if he wanted. He rolled his eyes. Much too messy, much too long, much too painful. That he  _had_ researched years before, while he was still with Jay. He’d never told him that. He’d never told Jay a lot of things.

 

He shook his head of  _those_ thoughts immediately.  _No point in_ _dwelling_ _on_ _the past._ Normally, he didn’t smoke inside his house, but nothing about what was going on was normal. He decided to make an exception. The nicotine calmed down the intensity of the urges, took the edge off so to speak. He still very much wanted to die, but the urge to  _immediately_ reach for the nearest thing to kill himself with was greatly reduced.

 

_Spite,_ he kept telling himself.  _Gotta at least_ _live_ _out of_ _spite._ Over and over again he repeated that to himself in the hopes that it’d over power the self destructive spiral his brain was going down.

 

He wasn’t going to get a gun. He’d kill Alex with his bare hands if he had to. Getting lost in gruesome fantasies about murdering the other man probably also wasn’t healthy, so he stopped himself from going down that dark road as well.

 

He started playing in his guitar again, humming a song from years ago that always comforted him. Remembering the times he associated it with hurt, but he’d take that pain over the violent suicidal/homicidal ideation any day of the week. 

 

_I’m going to live, dammit, and not even I can do anything to stop that._


End file.
